


Borderlands

by Aerlalaith



Series: In A Strange Land [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Angst and Porn, Bodice-Ripper, Bottom Castiel, Castles, Cultural Differences, Drama, Forbidden Love, High Fantasy, Injury, M/M, Medieval, Past Relationship(s), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, References to Childbirth, References to Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 14:00:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4062613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerlalaith/pseuds/Aerlalaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With his brother wounded from a hunt, Dean of Winchester seeks aid from the closest place that will give it: an outpost on the borderlands, belonging to one of King Robert’s allies. What he doesn’t expect, is to find that the garrison commander is not only a man he knows, but one with whom he already has quite the history. High Fantasy AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Borderlands

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: references to death during childbirth.

Samandriel, banished to the Western Gate that eve on account of certain…indiscretions, was startled from his light doze against the wall by the sound of a great banging, echoing down below. He squinted through the dark and the rain, brushing soaked hair out of his eyes, drawing his cloak closer around him. Through the gloom, Samandriel could just make out the figure of what looked like a man standing next to a horse—no, leaning on it, more like—pounding his fists against the grates of the portcullis, and shouting for all he was worth.  
   
“Open the gate!”  The man hit it again. “Please, open the gate!”  
   
Samandriel’s mouth opened and closed several times, before he remembered himself. With fumbling fingers, he lit the torch to his left, and raised it. His voice, when he called down, was embarrassingly high, though he had passed his sixteenth birthday not two weeks ago. “Who calls?”  
   
The figure, hearing Samandriel’s wavering query from above, swung his gaze upward, searching for the speaker. As he did so, his hood fell back, and Samandriel saw that he was indeed a man. In the torchlight, he could see that he had short brown hair and sharp eyes. A fresh cut ran across his forehead. The horse next to him was a glossy black and across her saddle, what looked like another man lay boneless, unmoving. Samandriel stared.  
   
“Boy!” the man said, finally spotting him. “Please, listen to me—I am one of King Robert’s men. My companion was wounded on a Hunt not ten miles from your outpost. I bring news and seek aid. Are we not your ally?”  
   
Samandriel swallowed. What was he supposed to do? Had they covered this? He was pretty sure that his master had never gone over this situation before. What if the man was lying? What if he was an enemy? Demons could steal a man’s face, so it was said. “I—”  
   
“Ho, Alfie,” said a voice to his right. He felt a touch at his elbow. “What’s the ruckus down here?”  
   
Samandriel could have wept in relief. “Balthazar,” he said. “There’s a man down below. I—I don’t know if I should let him in, he looks like he’s hurt, but—”  
   
“Hmm, I can see that,” Balthazar said. He looked down, waved at the man, then said in an undertone, “Can’t be too careful these days. I’ll speak to him. Look, he has a hunter’s crest on his cloak. Can’t you see it?” (Samandriel could not). Balthazar gave him a light shove. “A demon could not have made it across the bridge, he’d have been stuck in that devil’s trap halfway here. Run and fetch your master, would you? Tell him we have a visitor.”  
   
As Samandriel fled to do Balthazar’s bidding, Balthazar began to bellow orders to the soldiers stationed below the gate, warm and dry in their guardhouse.  
   
“Raise the Western Gate! Hurry up, we have wounded!”  
   
The Hunter on the other side gave Balthazar a salute as the iron portcullis creaked upward and the massive gates swung open to admit the visitor. As soon as he had passed safely beyond the sigils there, the portcullis slammed down behind him and the carved iron and stone doors were shut with equal finality. By the time he made it into the courtyard, Balthazar was there to greet him.  
   
“Balthazar,” he said. “Second Captain.” He gave the visitor a once over, gaze lingering on the way the man leaned against his horse, his shredded boots, the dark circles under his eyes. “Have you a name, Hunter?”  
   
The man scrubbed at his haggard face. “Dean,” he said. “Dean of Winchester.”  
   
Balthazar frowned. The name seemed somewhat familiar, though he couldn’t place it. “And your companion?”  
   
Dean placed a gentle hand on the shoulder of the man slumped over the horse. The man let out a groan. “My brother, Sam—Samuel,” he said. He swallowed visibly. “A demon blade to the side—just a graze, but it must have gotten into the blood. If you have _anything_ —”  
   
Balthazar held up his hand. “We will do what we can,” he said. “I’ve called for a healer. Your brother will be in good hands.” Behind him, he could already hear the telltale footfalls of one of the garrison’s healers clattering down the stone steps.  
   
“You said his side was injured?” Inias inquired, coming up to them. He carried himself tall and straight, like all that branch of the family. He cocked his head towards Dean, a leather satchel slung across his shoulder. “I will see to him.” He motioned to two others, and they began to ease Samuel from the saddle. Dean leapt around to help, and Balthazar was impressed, despite himself, at the horse’s indifference to being so crowded.  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said. “It doesn’t look like much, but he’s been in and out of consciousness ever since. I rode as quickly as Impala could carry us.” He patted the horse’s flank, eyes trained on the healer.  
   
Inias took out a knife and cut away at Samuel’s shirt, revealing a small gash on his left side, just below his ribs. But what should have been nothing more than a flesh wound was an unnatural greenish color, with whitish pus oozing out and a dark bruise spreading underneath towards his abdomen. Balthazar hissed in sympathy.  
   
“Poison,” Inias said. He nodded sharply, and his men heaved Samuel up to transfer him to a litter. “We’ll take him up to the infirmary. And you.” He pointed towards Dean’s forehead, which was still bleeding sluggishly. “You should get that looked at as well.”  
   
Dean swiped his hand across his forehead, looking surprised for a moment at the fresh blood coating his fingers. Then his shoulders caved. “All right,” he said. “After. In a moment.”  
   
“You said you had news?” Balthazar said, as Dean watched Inias and his fellows bear his brother up the castle steps.  
   
Dean tore his gaze away. “Yes,” he said. “I must speak with your commander.”  
   
“I’ve sent his squire to fetch him.” Balthazar eyed Dean. Then his attention flickered to some of the soldiers, curious, who had come to stand around them, feigning nonchalance. “It would be best if we discuss this inside.”  
   
“Wait,” Dean said. He cast a glance at his horse. “My horse.”  
   
“We'll see to her.” Balthazar crooked one of his fingers at the closest unfortunate. “Take the horse to the stables,” he said. “Make sure she’s cared for.” He squinted at the horse, noting the way she stood, the fine muscles in her legs and the steady strength of her, then added. “Look well, gentlemen. It’s a rare day you’ll see a mount like this. She’s not to be put away wet.”  
   
Dean shot him a grateful look, and swiveled to the horse, gnawing on his lower lip. He gave her a brisk rub on the side of her head, and the animal snuffled his hair. He pulled back to look her in the eyes and said firmly, “Be good. I’ll be back to see you soon as I’ve checked on Sammy.” He stepped away, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “All right,” he said.  
   
Balthazar, who had been waiting impatiently, beckoned for Dean to follow him. “It’s not often we see King Robert’s men in these parts,” he commented. “You were hunting?”  
   
Dean nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “We were—we got caught by surprise. Up the mountain pass. Just northwest of here.”  
   
“That’s a dangerous area,” Balthazar said as he led them through the main doors to the entrance hall. Dean took in the mostly bare, stone walls, the hall covered in nothing more ornate than a few tapestries, all geometric patterns and muted colors.  
   
“We noticed,” Dean said dryly. They turned down a corridor.  
   
“Demons?” Balthazar queried.  
   
“A whole camp of them. They’re probably planning a raid. I assumed your commander would want to know.”  
   
Balthazar inclined his head. “We’re always dealing with demon raids up here on the border,” he said, mouth pulling wryly. “Though I expect Lord Novak will appreciate the warning just the same.” He stopped in front of the parlor door, turning to face Dean, who blinked, looking startled.  
   
“Lord…Novak?”  
   
“The Commander,” Balthazar clarified, pulling open the door and gesturing Dean inside. The room was only slightly less bare than the entrance hall had been, though there was a scattering of a few leather armchairs settled nearby the unlit fire grate, and one large, long table. Balthazar figured he didn’t need to light the damn thing at this point—there were oil lamps aplenty.  
   
“Oh. I see.” Dean licked his lips. “Novak…the Elder?”  
   
“You’re familiar with the family?” Balthazar raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised.”  
   
“House Novak isn’t exactly obscure.”  
   
Balthazar looked unimpressed “I see. Well, there’s only one Lord Novak these days. And the little Lady, of course.” He checked his wristwatch. “He was probably off putting the child to bed, no doubt. He should be down soon.”  
   
“The…child?” Dean echoed.  
   
Balthazar frowned, wondering perhaps, if he shouldn’t have sent this Winchester along to the infirmary with his brother, news be damned. Now that they were in better light, he could see that he looked quite pale. “Yes,” he said. “Lord Novak’s daughter.”  
   
“His daughter,” Dean said, voice now oddly flat.  
   
Balthazar snorted. “Yes, I know. The borderlands are no place for a child. I’ve told him that often enough. But he wouldn’t be parted from her, poor motherless thing…” He stopped himself, straightening guiltily. “Regardless,” he said. “He should be here soon.”  
   
Dean glanced down, shuffling his feet. And then without asking permission, he sat in one of the leather armchairs. Balthazar had to bite his tongue so as not to chastise him for ruining the upholstery with his wet clothes. “How long has Lord Novak been commanding here?” His tone was beyond weary now. He shrugged off his heavy cloak, revealing the typical dark green shirt and brown trousers of the hunters, though his were torn and stained with travel.  
   
“Three years now,” Balthazar said, checking the hallway surreptitiously. Where the hell was Castiel? He had better things to do than babysit one of King Robert’s Hunters. He needed to make sure that someone was covering Samandriel’s absent post, first off, and then he had a much delayed date with a fine finger of whiskey and his own bed.  
   
“That’s quite the tenure for the borderlands.”  
   
“I suppose.” Balthazar didn’t mention that he had been here nearly as long. “Lord Novak seems to prefer it.”  
   
“Oh.”  
   
They lapsed into an awkward quiet, Dean picking at a loose thread on his shirt, Balthazar shifting his weight from foot to foot, unwilling to sit, but equally unwilling to leave their guest alone in the parlor.  
   
Finally, to Balthazar’s relief, he heard rapid footsteps coming down the hallway. The door to the parlor swung open. Lord Castiel Novak, looking about as put together as usual—which is to say, not at all—strode into the room, questioning gaze immediately zooming in on Balthazar. Balthazar, noting that Castiel was dressed in two mismatched boots, sleeping pants, and the casual guardsman’s cotton undershirt, laces half undone, resisted the urge to cover his face with his hands.  
   
Castiel’s demeanor though, was anything but haphazard. “Balthazar?” he asked, gravel voice sharp. “Samandriel said we had a visitor. One of King Robert’s men.”  
   
“We do,” Balthazar said. “He said he had news for you.” He turned to introduce Dean, and Castiel tilted his head, looking behind Balthazar towards where their guest sat waiting.  
   
But Dean was already standing. He took a step forward. “Hey, Cas,” he said quietly.  
   
At the sound of his name, Castiel’s entire body froze. He stared at the Dean, mouth open. Then, he swung his head very slowly to look at Balthazar. Balthazar shrugged at him, perplexed.  
   
Castiel turned back to the hunter.  
   
“Dean?” he said finally, the name almost a question, a curiously vulnerable shape in his mouth.  
   
Dean gave a lopsided smile, not quite gentle. His hands hung loosely at his sides. “It’s been a while.”  
   
Balthazar glanced between the two, feeling like he was missing something. “You’ve met?”  
   
“You could say that,” Dean said. He stepped a little closer, eyeing Castiel like he wasn’t quite sure if he recognized him or not, if he was really there or not. For his part, Castiel remained stock still, breathing shallow. “Cas spent some time at King Robert’s court, as part of the talks,” he said. “We became,” he hesitated. “Acquainted.”  
   
As if at the reminder, Castiel raised his chin. “Dean of Winchester,” he said, this time sounding more like his usual self. He turned to Balthazar. “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize the name,” he said. “This is one of King Robert’s foster sons.”  
   
This time, both of Balthazar’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as Dean gave a little bow, mouth tightening to just this side of mocking. “At your service.”  
   
“Engaged to King Robert’s niece, last I heard,” Castiel continued, and Balthazar was disconcerted by the coolness of his tone. Castiel was serious yes, often formal, but cold? He snuck a glance at Dean, who had swallowed, clearly noticing as well.  
   
“I’m sure Jo sends her regards,” he said. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “And my foster father.”  
   
“You said you had news?” Castiel said abruptly.  
   
Dean straightened. He crossed his arms. “I did.”  
   
“Is it urgent?”  
   
“I don’t know, Cas,” Dean said. He sounded tired. “Do demon raids count as urgent for you these days?”  
   
Castiel drew in his breath sharply, but all he said was, “Can it wait until morning?”  
   
“I—Probably.”  
   
“Very well.” Castiel closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “Have you eaten?”  
   
“He needs to go to the infirmary before he eats,” Balthazar drawled from the side. They both swung to look at him, startled, as if they’d forgotten he was even in the room. “Inias’ orders.”  
   
Castiel’s lips parted a little as he noticed the cut across Dean’s forehead. He stepped forward. “Dean, why didn’t you say that you were injured?”  
   
“No big deal,” Dean grunted. “Sammy’s the injured one, not me. I’m fine.”  
   
“Sam is here too? What—” he shook his head, expression softening just the tiniest bit. “What happened?”  
   
Dean’s jaw worked. “Demon,” he said. He looked down at his boots. “Your healer said it was poisoned.”  
   
“Oh.” Castiel exhaled. He cast a sidelong look at Balthazar. “Is it serious?”  
   
Balthazar lifted his shoulders. “He’s in the infirmary,” he said. “You can ask Inias yourself.”  
   
Castiel passed his hand over his eyes, then nodded. “Very well,” he said. “We will go to the infirmary.”  
   
“Cas, you don’t have to—” Dean started, glancing up, but Castiel shot him a glare.  
   
“The infirmary, Balthazar,” he said.  
   
Balthazar sighed. “Yes, sir,” he muttered. He began to lead the way out of the parlor. This arrangement put him in front of the other two, which would have all been for the best, really, if it hadn’t been for the less than subtle whispered argument that promptly commenced behind him. He couldn’t catch all of what they were saying, but Balthazar thought wryly that the commander’s “acquaintance” was enough to set the entire garrison to talking.  
   
“…In the dead of night. Honestly, Dean, what were you _thinking_?”  
   
“Maybe you’re not the only one who has to follow orders, Cas…” _mumble, mumble “_ …was supposed to know you were in charge here, anyway?”  
   
“Maybe if you had paid attention—”  
   
“Gentlemen,” Balthazar announced loudly, as he stopped in front of the infirmary doors. The both glanced up, Castiel with a mottled flush across his cheeks, Dean with his nostrils flared.  
   
“Oh,” said Castiel. “Thank you, Balthazar.” He strode ahead of Dean and pushed at the doors. After a moment, wherein Balthazar gave Dean an appraising look and Dean pretended to ignore him, they followed.  
   
The infirmary was actually three large rooms, interconnected. Two of the rooms had beds lined along the walls for recuperating patients, and the third in the back was where Inias conducted his surgeries. Castiel led them through the first recovery room, passing by several wrought iron cots, their starched white sheets crisply folded. Clear that Sam was not present, he moved on to the smaller, second room. Crossing the threshold, he saw Inias kneeling by a bedside, mouth moving in a mumbled prayer as he tended the wounded man’s side.  
   
Dean hurried forward and dropped to his knees. “Sammy?”  
   
Inias looked up. He bowed slightly when he saw Castiel. “Lord Novak,” he said.  
   
Castiel nodded back. “How is the patient?” he asked.  
   
Inias got to his feet. “I’ve cleaned the wound and blessed it. I can do no more for the fever. But he seems strong.” He tilted his head towards Dean, who was now holding his brother’s hand, stroking his hair. “He’s lasted this long. I expect he’ll make it through.”  
   
“Why won’t he wake?” Dean asked, voice low.  
   
Inias moved around to the other side of the bed. “I’ve given him medicine to help him sleep,” he said. “And for the pain.” He touched the side of Dean’s head, and Dean jerked away.  
   
“What—”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel said. “Let Inias look at your head.”  
   
Dean cast a wary glance at Inias, then at Castiel. He stood. “All right,” he said. “But it’s mostly healed.” He squeezed Sam’s hand one more time, then placed it gently next to his side, smoothing the white covers.  
   
“You can sit there.” Inias pointed to a nearby chair. “I still have hot water. It will be just a moment.” He headed towards another room, vanishing behind a curtain.  
   
Castiel turned to Balthazar. “Balthazar,” he said. “Can you request that hot water for a bath, fresh clothes, and something to eat be sent up to the guest quarters closest to the infirmary?”  
   
“Very well,” Balthazar said. He didn’t bother to disguise his sigh. Castiel clasped his shoulder.  
   
“Thank you, Balthazar.” The corner of his mouth crooked up. “After that you can feel free to go.”  
   
As Balthazar saluted lazily and turned to leave, Inias returned, lugging a basin full of hot water, and trailing a nurse carrying a veritable platter full of equipment, from bandages to cloths to jars of poultice.  
   
Dean hesitated, pulling back a little. Inias, catching this, said flatly, “No.” A beat. “Sit still.”  
   
Properly chastised, Dean put his hands in his lap, though his eyes drifted up accusingly towards Castiel as he asked, “Are you two related?”  
   
“Second cousins, actually,” Castiel replied, watching with just the tiniest bit of satisfaction as Inias dabbed the blood off of Dean’s forehead, and Dean squirmed.  
   
“I’m not surprised,” he managed. He winced when Inias prodded at the cut, angry and red, a diagonal slash from right to left, and began to smear a foul smelling poultice on it. “Ow.”  
   
“It’s a clean cut,” Inias said. “Should heal well, provided it’s taken care of.”  
   
“Will it scar?” Castiel found himself asking, leaning forward.  
   
“Likely,” Inias said. “Though it might be faint.”  
   
“Well I guess I’m through getting by on my good looks alone— _OW_.”  
   
“There.” Inias finished wrapping the bandage. “Come back tomorrow morning,” he said, standing up. “The bandage should be changed then.”  
   
Dean huffed out a breath. “All right,” he muttered. He turned his head to look at Sam, still sleeping on the cot next to him. “Actually,” he said. “Do you mind if I stay here tonight?” He indicated his brother. “With him? In case he wakes up?”  
   
“I gave him enough to lay out a horse for the next twelve hours,” Inias said, while Castiel shook his head.  
   
“No,” he said. “I’ve already ordered a bath and food for you. Sam will be fine here for the night.”  
   
Dean drew himself up. “I would really prefer—”  
   
“ _No_ , Dean!” Castiel found himself snapping. “At least take a bath, for god’s sake.” In the silence that followed, he took a deep breath. “I apologize,” he said stiffly. “Your brother will be in good hands with Inias. You will do him no service if you remain here hungry, in wet clothing.”  
   
Dean stared at him for a long moment, then he lowered his gaze. “As you say,” he grit out.  
   
Refusing to allow himself to feel any triumph at Dean’s capitulation, Castiel gave an abrupt nod. “He'll be in the guest rooms closest,” he told Inias, who was watching them both with undisguised interest. He directed his next words again towards Inias, though it was clear that they were also meant for Dean. “In case his brother awakens before expected, you should be able to find him easily.” He turned back to Dean. “Come with me,” he said.  
   
The guest room, “closest to the infirmary” turned out to be a whole floor above it. Dean was quiet, though Castiel could sense him fuming as he led them unerringly up a narrow flight of stairs, then down another corridor, and finally in front of a simple wooden door. He tugged at it, and the door swung open.  
   
As they entered, it was clear to see that Balthazar, or at least his minions, had been there already. The covers on the four-poster bed had been turned down invitingly, a few lamps had been lit, and a covered plate sat upon a small oak table. In the room beyond the bedroom, Dean could make out steam rising from a tiled bathtub.  
   
“Nice,” he said, despite himself.  
   
“The one advantage of the borderlands is the hot springs,” Castiel said. “We can pump the water fairly easily.”  
   
Dean turned to look at him. “Well, I’m glad you don’t have to live a life entirely devoid of civilization,” he said. He wasn’t sure whether he had meant for it to sound so biting, but there was no taking it back now. Castiel’s expression tightened.  
   
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said. He backed away towards the door, and had almost managed to reach it when Dean said, quietly,  
   
“Your captain. Balthazar. He said you…you have a daughter.”  
   
Castiel stilled. He willed his heartbeat to slow. “Yes.”  
   
Dean squeezed his eyes shut, his back turned to him. “How—how old is she?”  
   
Castiel straightened his shoulders. Even after everything, he refused to apologize for his daughter. There was nothing in the world more precious to him. “She’s four,” he replied, voice filled with a quiet steel. “Her name is Claire.”  
   
Dean barked out a humorless laugh. “Four,” he said. “Four years old.” He finally turned, and Castiel could see that his eyes looked red-rimmed, though no tears fell from them. “Wow, Cas, way to make a man feel special.”  
   
At that, Castiel felt a hot surge of anger. He ground out, “I will not apologize for her.”  
   
“Oh come off it, Cas!” Dean snapped. “You got _married!_ ”  
   
Castiel let go of the door handle and strode over to Dean. “You have no room to talk, Dean, you’re engaged!”  
   
“You had a child!”  
   
Castiel glowered at him. “What was I supposed to do, Dean? I was married. I made promises.”  
   
“Oh, I don’t know.” Dean pointed a finger at his face, lips curled upward in an ugly sneer. “Maybe not get married to the first woman you saw as soon as you’d left—”  
   
“How dare you!” Castiel snarled. Without consciously thinking about it, he pushed at Dean’s shoulders. Dean looked surprised as he stumbled backward. “Amelia had as little choice in the matter as I—”  
   
“There’s always a choice!” Dean shouted, as he regained his balance. “And you—you did exactly what Michael told you to, didn’t you? You married her, you—you fucked her—”  
   
“Don’t you dare speak a word against her, Dean! She _died_ giving birth to my child. Do you understand me? She died!”  
   
Dean opened his mouth, eyes flashing, but then his shoulders slumped, Castiel’s words penetrating. He turned away, ran his fingers through his hair. “Shit,” he said. “Shit, Cas. I—I’m sorry.”  
   
Castiel exhaled. “It’s all right,” he said, surprised at how even his voice sounded. “It’s—it was a long time ago.”  
   
Dean laughed weakly. “A long time ago, huh?” He glanced back at Castiel. “What does that make us, then, Cas?”  
   
“That’s different.”  
   
Dean shut his eyes. “You say that like it’s nothing.”  
   
“It isn’t—” Castiel shook himself. “It wasn’t nothing, Dean. I don’t—don’t say it like that. Don’t reduce it to that.” He reached out a hand, to do what he wasn’t sure, but Dean moved away, out of his grasp.  
   
“Then what?” Dean snorted. He sat on the bed, mindless of his dirty, wet clothes, though they were halfway to dry by now. “What should I call it then? I mean, shit, Cas. How am I supposed to know that you even cared at all?”  
   
Castiel drew back, a sharp pain in his chest at Dean’s words. “That’s not true,” he said. “Dean, you know I had nothing, nothing but the highest regard for you.”  
   
“Oh, the highest regard,” Dean said. “That’s nice.” He scowled up at Castiel. “You left,” he bit out. “You left and you—you didn’t. You never even sent a damn letter—”  
   
“What do you want me to say?” Castiel asked, frustrated, tugging on his hair, making it stick up even more wildly. He approached the bed. “Damn it, Dean, you know I had no choice. You make it sound like I wanted to leave!”  
   
“Didn’t you?” Dean demanded. “You sure as hell packed up quick enough. Bye Dean, thanks for the lay, I’m off to get _married_.” He spat. Castiel drew back, white-faced, shaking.  
   
“Dean, I never wanted to…” he trailed off, but Dean seemed to get the gist of what he was saying anyway. Castiel couldn’t say that he was surprised. It had always been like that, when they were together.  
   
“But you did, Cas,” he said hoarsely. “You did.”  
   
“I asked you to come with me,” Castiel said. He swallowed, throat tight. “Dean, I _begged_ you, remember? You were the one who refused. You were the one who sent me away.”  
   
Dean inhaled sharply. “Don’t you dare blame Sammy for this. You knew that was the one thing I couldn’t do, Cas. I couldn’t leave him.”  
   
There was silence for a moment. Dean’s gaze fixed on his hands, white-knuckled in his lap. Castiel stood over him, close enough to feel the heat of him, to hear the harshness of his breathing though he willed it steady, yet not quite close enough to touch.  
   
Finally, Castiel crouched down, placing his hands on Dean’s legs. He squeezed. “Because he’s your family,” he said. His voice was soft, resigned. “I know.” He looked up at Dean. “And Michael’s mine. You know why I had to go, Dean,” He bit his lip. The corners of his eyes burned. “And I understand why you had to stay.”  
   
Dean’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. “That’s a different kind of family.”  
   
But Castiel shook his head. “Duty is duty.”  
   
“It’s not the same—” Dean tried to stand up, but Castiel kept a firm grip on him.  
   
“Dean,” he said, voice cracking. “Dean. Please.”  
   
“You broke my heart, Cas,” Dean said, his voice barely a whisper. “Goddamn you.”  
   
Despite all his efforts, Castiel could not help but let out a muffled sob. “I’m sorry,” he managed.  
   
“God, Cas,” Dean said. He let out a strange noise, and it took Castiel a moment to realize that Dean was actually chuckling, though the sound of it was anything but happy. “We’re the fucking worst. You know that? We’re just—” he covered his face with his hands. “God damn it all.”  
   
Castiel shut his eyes, breathing. He leaned his forehead against Dean’s legs. Dean’s hands reached down to tangle in his hair. “I wish I hadn’t,” he said, speaking to the rough fabric of Dean’s trousers. “I can’t regret it, Dean. I can’t, because my daughter means everything to me. _Everything_. You can’t understand how much. And I can’t—But I wish I hadn’t. I wish I hadn’t had to leave.”  
   
“I know.” Dean’s hands, trembling, drew Castiel’s chin up to face him, fingers calloused and strong, just how Castiel remembered them. Their eyes caught and held. “I know, Cas.”  
   
“What I felt for you,” Castiel said, hushed, unable to look away. “Amelia knew. She knew I couldn't love her. She thought I had left a woman in King Robert’s court.” His next laugh was almost hysterical. “She probably would have left me if she’d known the truth. A woman of strong morals.”  
   
“Jo did,” Dean admitted. Castiel’s mouth dropped.  
   
“No.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said, actually wincing at the memory. “Think she must’ve known all along. Told me to get lost, actually. And then to do something, uh, creative with a sheep.”  
   
“Oh,” Castiel said. He pondered this. His gaze flickered toward Dean’s mouth, his lips. He wiped at his cheeks. “So I take it you’re not engaged.”  
   
“Not anymore.”  
   
“Oh,” Castiel said softly. He willed himself to look away from Dean. Away from those green eyes, the lips that Castiel had never been able to find a match for, no matter how hard he tried. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He would not. He would _not._  
   
“And Jo’s got kind of a big mouth so— _mgmph!_ ” Dean’s eyes widened, his words cut off as Castiel surged upward and tackled him, sealing their mouths together.  
   
Castiel drew back from the kiss, panting. “Sorry,” he said. “I know. We shouldn’t. We shouldn’t anymore, but—”  
   
“Shut up,” Dean said. He turned Castiel’s face toward him, dragging him forward into another kiss. “Shut up,” he repeated. “Fuck, Cas. Fuck.”  
   
“Since I saw you,” Castiel said, breathless, kissing him again, unable to let go. “Standing in the parlor, _my parlor_. I thought I was dreaming.” He was babbling, he knew it.  He couldn’t stop. “I thought I was hallucinating. I thought I had finally gone mad for want of you.”  
   
“You’re not. I’m—” Dean shut his eyes, willing himself back under control. “Fuck, Cas. Nearly had a heart attack when I heard you were here.” He leaned in again, greedy. “Fuck, I am still. I am still so mad at you—”  
   
“I know,” Castiel said. “You probably hate me—ah, Dean!”  
   
“Damn it,” Dean growled. He yanked Castiel towards him, crushed their mouths together. “Fuck.”  
   
“We shouldn’t,” Castiel managed, between the hot slide of their mouths, between repositioning himself so that instead of leaning over Dean, he was now straddled across his lap, Dean’s hands firm and strong circling his back. “We shouldn’t. Dean. But I can’t. I can’t, Dean. Please!”  
   
“I’ve got you,” Dean said. “Cas. I’ve got you. You’re—come here.” He tugged Castiel closer, so close that their chests touched, so that he could feel Dean hot and hard already beneath his uniform. Castiel let out an embarrassingly high keen as Dean sucked on his neck, dragged his hands underneath Castiel’s shirt, tugging it off in one, smooth stroke.  
   
“Dean,” Castiel panted. “Dean. Nothing—no one ever. No one was like you. Every day, until my daughter was born, I thought about running away. Every day I’d think about you, about this— _oh_.” His back arched, his voice stumbling. He scrabbled for purchase on the front of Dean’s shirt, undoing the laces with trembling fingers. “Off,” he said. “Get this off.”  
   
“All right, all right,” Dean said, between kisses, and strokes to Castiel’s back, his sides. He let go for a moment to strip out of his own shirt, Castiel helping eagerly to pull it over his head, mussing his half-dried hair, maneuvering carefully around the bandages on Dean’s forehead. Bare chested, Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel, who squirmed into him, hips rocking, nuzzling into his chest. Then he paused, looking up at Dean.  
   
“Dean,” he said, grimacing. “You stink.”  
   
Dean, barely able to focus with Castiel placed on his lap _just so_ , and still making tiny little movements with his hips, tightened his grip. “What?” he whined, trying not to sound wrecked and desperate, and failing miserably.  
   
“You smell of horse.”  
   
Dean gasped, coughed, and then threw his head back in laughter, the moment broken.  Castiel wrinkled his nose.  
   
“You do,” he grumbled.  
   
“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean said. He wiped at his streaming eyes with the back of his hand. “I just spent the past two weeks on the hunt, then rode here in the dead of night—”  
   
Castiel kissed him. Firmly, gently, taking his face between his hands, and swiping at the corners of Dean’s eyes with his thumbs. “I don’t care,” he said. “I’m glad you’re all right.” He let go, and rested his cheek against Dean’s chest, hearing his heartbeat. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re safe, Dean.”  
   
“I—” Dean felt as though there was a lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel said. He buried his face in the crook of Dean’s neck. “Dean, I’m _sorry_. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to go. I never wanted to go.”  
   
Dean closed his eyes. “I know,” he choked out. “I—”  
   
“Please,” Castiel said. He touched Dean’s face, fingers brushing past his cheek, tracing carefully around the wound on his forehead. “Please, Dean. I—even if another five years pass before I see you again. Can we…just for tonight? _Please_.”  
   
Dean nodded, words failing him. He knew he could never refuse Castiel. Had never been able to refuse him. Not really. He scooted back on the bed, kicking off his boots and trousers, heedless of the sweat and dirt that still clung to him. Castiel stepped easily out of his sleep pants, tossing them aside.  
   
“Come here,” Dean whispered, and Castiel went, wrapping his legs around Dean’s, mouth falling open at the renewed contact, the naked heat between them. Dean grabbed at his forearms and rolled them over so that Castiel lay flat on his back, panting, eyes glassy. In response, Castiel tugged at Dean’s shoulders, yanking him down into a filthy, open-mouthed kiss that left Dean’s head spinning.  
   
“I want you in me, Dean,” Castiel said, gasping as Dean tongued at his nipples, pinched his side. “Please. I want you. Want you _inside_.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean mumbled, “Yeah, Cas. Of course. I need. Do you, do you have something I can—”  
   
“I don’t care,” Castiel said. He bucked his hips upward. “I want you now, Dean. I want to remember it for _days_.”  
   
“I’m not gonna hurt you.” Dean shook his head, though he shivered at Castiel’s words. “Cas, there’s gotta be. Oil. Oil or something. By the bath, maybe?”  
   
“Winchester, I swear to _god_ if you get up right now I will never forgive you,” Castiel threatened. He locked his legs tightly around Dean’s hips.  
   
“I can’t take you dry, Cas.”  
   
“I’m asking you to!” Castiel cried. “Now, Dean. I want you now!”  
   
“Always so impatient,” Dean chided. He glanced around halfheartedly, hoping perhaps that a bottle of oil might magically appear on the table. It didn’t, but his gaze did pass over three lamps—one of which was unlit. “Just a second,” he said, silencing Castiel’s complaint with a deep kiss. He rolled off of Castiel and grabbed at the lamp. He screwed off the glass cover, then swiped his fingers through the oil dish, coating them thoroughly. He clambered back over to Castiel, who glared at him.  
   
“Some lover you are.”  
   
“Hey,” Dean waggled his fingers. “Lift your hips.”  
   
Despite his disgruntled expression, Castiel obeyed eagerly, lifting up, exposing himself. Dean carefully circled around with one oiled finger, then after a moment or two of massaging and prodding, penetrated. Castiel groaned. He shifted his hips, eyes clenched, hands tightened into fists. Then he said, “Another, Dean. I can take it.”  
   
Unable to deny him, Dean pushed in a second, oiled, finger. Castiel sucked in a breath, stilling, then pushed down. Dean took his time, moving his fingers around carefully, stretching Castiel as the man himself let loose filthy, muttered curses, squirming under Dean’s hold, hard and leaking, his cock curved up over his stomach. Dean pushed in a third finger, and Castiel let out a strangled yelp, grasping for Dean, pulling him down into a kiss.  
   
“No more fingers,” he said, when they separated. “Now, Dean. I want you.”  
   
“You have me,” Dean said, twisting his fingers and rubbing at the spot inside that made Castiel writhe.  
   
“No, Dean,” Castiel panted. “You know what I want.”  
   
“Oh yeah?” Dean smiled. “Ask me for it.” He twisted his fingers in again as Castiel, impaled, could do nothing but gasp and shudder. “You want my cock, don’t you, Castiel?” Castiel nodded frantically. “Say it.”  
   
Castiel pressed his lips together and shook his head.  
   
Dean pressed in deeper. “Say it.”  
   
“Your cock, Dean, please!” Castiel swore up at him, a flush staining his cheeks, mouth wet and red. “Give it to me!”  
   
Dean pulled out. He slapped his hand over his cock, coating it with all the oil left over, then placed the tip at Castiel’s entrance, teasing. “What, this?”  
   
Castiel growled. And before Dean knew what was happening, Castiel had shoved forward, spearing himself. As Dean slid inside, he gripped Castiel’s hips, tight to bruising, and Castiel let out a shout. After a moment of adjusting however, he slid down further, bringing Dean deeper inside him.  
   
For his part, Dean could do nothing but hold on for the ride, unwilling to let himself come so soon. Five years. Five years he had waited for this! He was not going to shoot off like a mere boy.  
   
Below him, Castiel blinked teary eyes. “Move, Dean,” he said, voice shaky. “Please, I need you to move.”  
   
Swallowing, not quite sure he had gotten all his control back, Dean gave a shallow thrust. Castiel, ungrateful bastard that he was, scowled at him.  
   
“More.”  
   
Rolling his eyes, Dean gave another thrust, this one harder. Castiel cried out, gripping the bedsheets below him, mouth slackening. At his response, Dean grinned. He hitched up Castiel’s legs further, bracing himself, and began to set a grueling pace. With each thrust, some deliberately aiming for his sweet spot, some not, Castiel fell further and further apart. Until it seemed like only Dean’s hands on his hips, only Dean slamming into him, the slapping of skin on skin, were keeping him together. Castiel closed his eyes, tilting his head back, exposing his throat as he moaned, and panted, and cursed. But Dean wasn’t having it.  
   
“Open your eyes, Cas,” he said. He leaned down as Castiel blinked those blue eyes open, the first thing that had drawn Dean to him, all those years ago in his foster father’s court. “I want to see you.”  
   
“D—Dean,” Castiel stuttered. Their gazes caught and held. “I can’t—”  
   
“You can,” Dean told him. He shoved into him, leaning forward to capture Castiel’s mouth, letting go of his legs to cradle one hand at the base of Castiel’s neck. Castiel kissed him back desperately, biting down on his lip as Dean shifted, and hit Castiel’s prostate straight on. Castiel’s eyes widened, like he couldn’t believe what was happening, what was about to happen. And Dean loved it, loved that he looked like that every time as he held on to Dean, and he tensed, and came, pupils blown wide, mouth gaping.  
   
And as he watched Castiel come down from his high, muscles slackening, Dean kissed him again. He lowered Castiel’s head gently to the pillow, still inside to feel the aftershocks of Castiel’s body clenching around him. He swore, his vision whiting out as he thrust again, and felt himself let go, let Castiel hold on to his shoulders tightly through his fall.  
   
When it felt as though all the tension in the world had drained from his body, Dean slumped over Castiel, who let out a light, “ _Oof_ ,” but otherwise didn’t complain. Only carded his hands through Dean’s hair, fingers skittering up and down the nape of his neck as their heartbeats steadied.  
   
Eventually, it became apparent that not separating now was going to result in some severe discomfort later on. With a grunt, Dean lifted himself off of Castiel and flopped to the side. Castiel reached out and clasped his hand, entwining their fingers. Dean let him. He turned onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow.  
   
“I could really use a bath,” he said.  
   
“Yes,” Castiel agreed. Dean flicked his ear for that.  
   
“Do you want to, uh. I mean.” He gestured at his head. Castiel looked at him solemnly, though a slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.  
   
“Are you asking me to help wash your hair?”  
   
Dean’s gaze shifted away. “Maybe.”  
   
With a groan, Castiel sat up. “Very well,” he said. “I could do with a wash myself.” He placed his bare feet on the floor and stood carefully, wincing at the ache in his backside, before leading the way to the bath. Dean blinked for a second in surprise, then followed.  
   
The water had long since cooled, but Castiel simply drained some of it, then turned on the taps again, allowing hot water to pour into the tub. “Hot springs,” he reminded Dean, smiling a little at his expression. He turned off the water. “Get in.”  
   
Dean supposed that he shouldn’t have been surprised when Castiel followed him into the tub. It was, after all, quite large, though still a little small for two full-grown men. Castiel wasn’t idle, however. He scrubbed diligently at Dean, washing away the traces of his journey, even as Dean hissed when the hot, soapy water came into contact with some of his cuts.  
   
“Can I ask a question?” Dean asked, head tilted back and eyes closed as Castiel rinsed his hair, careful not to get the bandages wet.  
   
“Yes?”  
   
“How did you end up on the borderlands? I mean, it’s not exactly a cushy spot, and Michael’s still your cousin—”  
   
“That’s _King_ Michael,” Castiel said absently. He frowned, his hands stilling their movement. Dean resisted the urge to turn around, and after a moment, Castiel’s motions picked up again. “I refused to wed,” he said eventually. His hands left Dean’s head and trailed down to his shoulders.  
   
Dean furrowed his brow. “But you did wed,” he said slowly.  
   
“No.” Castiel shook his head. “You misunderstand me. After Amelia…” he trailed off, then focused again. “After Amelia passed, and Claire had been weaned, King Michael suggested it might be in my—our—best interest if I were to marry for a second time.” He looked pained as he admitted, “I felt poorly for Claire, growing up without a mother, but I couldn’t.” He sighed. “I couldn’t bring myself to do it. To drag another woman through what Amelia had gone through. I—” He exhaled, rubbing at Dean’s shoulders. “So he sent me out here. Apparently,” and here his mouth twitched up, “being so far away from the capital, in the company of nothing but rough soldiers with barely a woman among them, would bring me to my senses.”  
   
Dean snorted. “He really has no idea.”  
   
“None,” Castiel said. He pushed his fingers into the muscles at Dean’s back, and Dean let out a moan. “Sore?”  
   
“God, yes,” Dean muttered. “I don’t know how I’ve gone without for so long. It’s practically a sin.” He turned around, capturing one of Castiel’s hands. “Your fingers really are magic.” He began to smile, but stopped as he noticed the expression on Castiel’s face. “Cas?”  
   
Castiel looked away. “Sorry,” he said. “I just—” he looked back at Dean. “Talking about Amelia, it makes me wonder. Do you think this— _us_ , what we do here. Do you think what happened to her was some kind of, some kind of punishment?”  
   
Dean drew back, staring at him. “What?” he said. “Cas, what the hell are you talking about?”  
   
Castiel covered his face with his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said miserably. “When I say it out loud it sounds absurd. But I can never help but think—Amelia _knew_ , Dean. She knew I loved another. But she didn’t really know. Oh god, she didn’t know that all I could think about was you. On our wedding night, all I wanted was you, and when she conceived, I…”  
   
“Cas, no,” Dean said. He wrapped his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, drawing him towards him. “Look, what happened to your wife it. It has nothing to do with this. I told you. How could it? Your people would have you believe that we’re cursed and unnatural, but in the eyes of my kingdom we’ve done nothing wrong. You’re not—women die all the time in childbirth. It’s awful, but it’s true. I’m sorry, but Cas,” and here he cupped Castiel’s chin, brushing a brief kiss on his lips, “Cas, these things _happen_. They do.”  
   
Castiel was quiet. “I couldn’t save her.”  
   
Dean kissed him again. “Cas, you are not being punished,” he said, voice firm. “If you’d come back with me, you’d see. You’d see. Bobby—sorry, King Robert wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t. And you wouldn’t be forced to, to raise your daughter out here, out in the borderlands just so Michael would mind his own business.”  
   
Castiel pulled away. “Dean, I can’t,” he said. “I’ve sworn an oath to my cousin. He’s my _king_. I can’t just leave.”  
   
Dean brushed wet hair out of Castiel’s face. “Didn’t I tell you?” he said. “There’s always a choice, Cas.”  
   
Castiel nodded reluctantly. He looked down, studying his hands. After a long while he said softly, “I’m tired.” He looked back up at Dean in mute appeal. “Take me to bed?”  
   
Dean nodded. He stood up, water sluicing from his body as he stepped out of the tub. There was a set of towels placed across a small wooden table, and he grabbed the top one, wrapping it around his waist. He then reached for the second and brought it to Castiel, laying it to the side before tugging Castiel out of the tub as well. He wiped him down briskly but gently, as Castiel leaned into him. When they had dried, Dean snagged the extra sleep shirt and pants that had been laid out for him by Balthazar, and shrugged them on.  
   
“Here,” he said, reaching down to collect the clothes that Castiel had shucked off earlier. He watched, careful to make sure that Castiel wasn’t about to fall asleep where he stood. “Are you all right?”  
   
“Yes.” Castiel blew air out of the corner of his mouth. He smiled, a little self-deprecatingly. “I’m just suddenly very weary.”  
   
Dean sat on the bed. “It is past midnight.”  
   
“Yes, I know.”  
   
Their eyes met.  
   
“Cas—”  
   
“Dean—”  
   
Dean huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “You first, Cas.”  
   
Castiel wiped his palms on the side of his sleep pants, shifting a little where he stood. “Dean, can I,” he started. He glanced away at the flagstones beneath his feet, wriggled his toes on the edge of the rug. “Do you mind if I stay here tonight?” he asked the floor.  
   
Dean was silent for a moment. Then, “Are you sure?”  
   
Castiel raised his head, something defiant glinting in his eyes. “I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”  
   
Dean bit his lip. “But Cas, if they find you here—”  
   
“Then they find me here,” Castiel cut him off. He moved forward, gathered Dean’s hands in his. Dean watched their fingers wrap together with a kind of dumbfounded fascination. “I want to stay.”  
   
Dean exhaled. “It’s not like I’d ever turn you down,” he muttered. He lay on the bed, pulling Castiel after him. Castiel followed, curling up next to him as soon as his head hit the pillow. Dean’s eyes fluttered closed. He breathed in the clean scent of Castiel’s hair, and rested his arm across his chest.  
   
“I’ll think about what you said,” Castiel said quietly. “About your offer.”  
   
Dean shifted. “Good,” he said. He snuffed at Castiel’s neck. “What are you gonna say when Balthazar bursts in here all scandalized?”  
   
Castiel scoffed. “Balthazar has no room to point fingers. I know for a fact that his family sent him here on account of sodomizing the butler.”  
   
Dean sat up. “ _Really_?” he said.  
   
“Yes,” Castiel said. “He was quite candid about it.”  
   
Dean, after a moment or two to properly digest that, lay back down again. He reached over to pinch at Castiel’s butt, breathing in his ear, “And what did you think about that?”  
   
Castiel wriggled backward, deliberately rubbing against him, the ass. “I found it refreshing.” He made a face. “Not that I could tell him that. Or why. Though I expect he’ll have some guesses come morning.” He poked at Dean. “You were not exactly subtle.”  
   
“Just me, huh?” Dean wished he wasn’t so tired right now, feeling Castiel warm and solid against him. “What if it’s someone else?” he asked instead. “What would you tell them?”  
   
“Nothing.”  
   
“Nothing?”  
   
“I command this entire garrison,” Castiel pointed out. “I’m not obliged to tell them anything. Their tongues can waggle all they want.” He snuggled closer to Dean. “I don’t care.”  
   
“You’re a tyrant.”  
   
“Mm, maybe.”  
   
Dean pressed in to the warmth him. He brushed a hand over Castiel’s wild hair, patting it down. “Will you really think about what I said?”  
   
Castiel stilled, then rolled over. “Dean,” he said, smoothing the back of his knuckles across Dean’s cheek. “I will. I swear it.”  
   
“Good.” Dean burrowed deeper into his pillow. “I meant it, you know. All of it.”  
   
Castiel smiled crookedly. “I know,” he said. He squeezed Dean’s hand. “Sleep, Dean.”  
   
And Dean, surrounded by the sound of Castiel’s breathing, by the familiar scent of him, a comfort despite five long years apart, was lulled off to a deep and dreamless slumber.  
   
   
   
   
End


End file.
